


a stroke of the brush

by seven_hells (Poose)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Het Relationship, Dominance, F/M, Hair, Love, Married Couple, Married Sex, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-20
Updated: 2012-04-20
Packaged: 2017-11-04 00:49:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/387825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poose/pseuds/seven_hells





	a stroke of the brush

He was watching her brush her hair. It was a nightly ritual for them, these quiet moments before bed, without the children demanding Cat's full attention, without him having to answer a thousand tedious questions from his steward. After they had all dined and the younger ones had been put to bed -- Cat always accompanied Septa Mordane to the girls' chambers, though she bid goodnight to them all, save Snow. While she did that, Ned finished any lingering business of the day and retired to their room.   
  
The candles would be lit and a fire blazing  in the hearth. By the time Ned had stripped to his tunic and begun to wash his face and hands, she would step quietly through the door and bar it behind her. He would find his way to bed and watch her as she too undressed, and performed her own ablutions, and sat on a stool in front of the glass sent from across the Narrow Sea, and then in the evening firelight his lady wife would take down her hair and brush it until it shone like beaten copper.   
  
Ned propped himself up on his elbow and watched her -- the slow unpinning and unbraiding, the long drag of the brush through her hair. It was a task for a lady's maid, in truth, but they both preferred it this way. At times they were silent, other times Ned would talk to her, thinking aloud about a problem with the coffers or the smallfolk. Some nights Cat might tell him about how Arya had snapped rudely at her septa for the tenth time that week, or that Bran was finally acquiring a taste for mashed turnips, which he always used to spit out, or that Rickon had to be watched closely now that he was crawling, and he moved _fast._  
  
The troubles were small, though, and hardly required his full attention. And other nights, as well, the nights when she would bring the brush to him, rather than sitting at her stool, they did not speak of the peasants or the children.   
  
Cat seated herself on the edge of the bed, and Ned pushed himself up to meet her. His hand skimmed up her shoulder and to the top of her head, and as he unpinned her braids he nuzzled the white curve of her neck, inhaling the smell of her - of mother's milk and woodsmoke and the lemon blossom water that she dabbed behind her ears.   
  
Her hair fell in waves as the braids came undone in his fingers, spilling over her shoulders. He raised the brush and ran it through her hair as he watched her do every night. The brush caught on the tangles; Ned tried to be gentle, with that at least. He did not have a chance to make it shine, though, because Cat was arching her head back for more of his touch. He loosened the hooks of her dress and stroked her shoulder once more as she turned her head to kiss him.   
  
"And how were the children, today?" he asked, spreading his hand beneath her ribs to cup beneath her bodice.   
  
"Very good, my love," she said, her voice already raspy with arousal.   
  
"What," he teased, "All of them?"   
  
Not a day in their marriage passed without some small trouble, his youngest daughter chief among them. Cat herself was never so difficult, but on nights when she brought him her hairbrush, she herself wanted to play the spoilt child.   
  
"Of course," she laughed. The laugh turned to a faint gasp as he brushed her nipple. He could feel it harden through the fabric. Cat shifted against him, moving more closely between his legs.   
  
"They are no trouble at all," she continued. Ned unfolded the seams of her blue dress and kissed along her spine.   
  
"And you?" he asked, moving his free hand between her legs. They parted at the slightest touch, her body already pliant and willing.   
  
"Terribly naughty."   
  
"Mmm," he said, grazing her earlobe with his teeth. "What ever shall I do with you?"   
  
Cat reached a hand behind to grasp his head. Ned nipped at her neck and she fell back against him, melted into him. "Whatever you please," she whispered.   
  
"Come here, then," he said, gruffly, yanking her across his knee. He swatted her lightly through her skirts, and Cat turned to look at him, her cheeks crinkling with laughter and arousal.   
  
"Are you so weak as all that?" she teased.   
  
"Don't mock me, woman."   
  
"I would never, my lord." 

Ned caught both her hands in his one and pinned them to her back. His other hand pulled her skirts around her waist and delivered more smacks, more teasing than firm through her linen shift. Cat wriggled in his grip, and as he moved a leg beneath her, she began to rut herself against it.   
  
"Do you like that?" he asked, softly. She moved against him by way of response, whimpering as he pushed her shift up and her smallclothes down. Her sex was warm against his leg, the skin of her backside slightly pink from where he had spanked her.   
  
"Cat," he said, tracing the marks with the pads of his fingers.   
  
"Don't stop, Ned," she told him, "please don't ever, ever stop."   
  
The first real slap left a pink handprint, but her cry mixed pleasure with pain, and as he rained down on her she came close to cursing, rubbing off against his leg. When he stopped to caress her, to take out some of the sting, and to fist his hand in her thick hair, he could feel a wet patch spreading through his breeches.   
  
"Does that please you?" he asked, to the back of her head, which nodded. "I can feel how wet you are, making a mess everywhere." She moaned into his other leg, trying for more pressure.   
  
"Tsk," he said, lifting the hairbrush. "You should know better than that."   
  
He released her hands, then, but she stretched them out immediately over her head. _Beseeching,_ he thought. Cat's body always told him what she wanted, what she needed. Tonight she needed this. And so Ned hit her hard enough for it to be a sharp bite of pain, but not, he hoped, so much that she would carry bruises on the morrow.   
  
A dozen firm blows fell on each bare cheek of her arse, and when he set the hairbrush aside she cried out with frustration. He pressed one finger inside her, meeting no resistance but the grip of her as she shuddered out her pleasure.   
  
"Ned," she rasped, as he undressed her fully, as she fumbled to strip him as well, "Ned, Ned, fuck me, _please_." She moved to the center of the bed, and on her knees he kissed her once more before she sank onto her forearms and offered herself to him.   
  
"Cat," he said, as he entered her.   
  
"Don't stop," she said, which confused him at first. She reached behind to find his hand and to place it on her reddened arse and in a hot instant he understood. He drove deep into her, swinging his right hand in tandem, until she panted, "Touch me, Ned, now, now, touch me, yes," and he fell across her back and pressed his hand hard between her legs, feeling her own arousal and his seed spill down her thighs. In that moment she became as wild as a wolf, and when she cried out, then he gave himself over to her, as well.   
  
"Was it too much?" he asked, afterwards, as she curled upon his bare chest. He craned his neck to look down at her backside where splotchy bruises were forming. "I've left marks," he said, with concern.   
  
"Indeed you have, my love," she answered. "When I cannot sit still to do my embroidery tomorrow, it will all be your fault."   
  
He looked down at her closed eyes and blissful smile.   
  
"But," she went on, "I'm certain I can think of a suitable reprimand for you, as well."


End file.
